


Paris' Proposal

by cto10121



Category: Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Humor, Original French Cast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-07-11 11:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cto10121/pseuds/cto10121
Summary: In the wake of an explosive rumor, Paris makes a proposal to Tybalt. No, not that kind of proposal. A darker kind, let's say. Slight modern AU.





	Paris' Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> AKA "Paris trolls Tybalt for 2k words," ha. Just a fun little thing I made, a 'deleted scene' type fic. I feel almost guilty tagging this as a modern AU since it's pretty much just one small detail and maybe, I dunno, more swears, but since the show itself is so ambiguous as to its setting, why not? Original French verse because I'm Original French trash, but for this fic's purposes...there will be Hungarian Paris vibes. Oh, yeah. Enjoy...

“Curb your enthusiasm, Tybalt, or I’ll swear you have a fondness for me after all. Some cake?”

Gritting his teeth so hard he could feel the scrape of enamel on enamel. Paris, nonplussed, leisurely helped himself to more lemon torte. The café seemed dimmer than usual; his own dark mood, no doubt. But he knew he wasn’t imagining the whispers, the stealing glances and covert stares.

_Elopement, that’s right—_

_In front of everyone, shameless—_

_These things, they have their price, they must—_

_Poor Capulet. Such a scandal—_

“Will it kill you to relax?” said Paris, but in such a light tone one would think he was commenting about the weather. “Or would you rather feed the gossipmongers?”

“What does it matter if I feed them or not?” he snapped without thinking. “The damage is done.”

“So you believe these rumors?”

Was this a trap? “Do you, my lord?”

“It doesn’t matter what one believes, Tybalt,” said the older man, with a steeliness to his tone. “What matters is what you plan to do.”

 _Fop_ , thought Tybalt, seething as the count dabbed at his mouth with his kerchief. What was he up to?

That morning he had woken up to a nightmare, to a bevy of buzzing servants, the wry satire of the middling, the pallor of the gentry. Verona had never been rumor-free—quite the contrary—but this one cut straight to the status quo bone. They were in love; he had seduced her; she had played the wanton; they were seen kissing in the orchard last night; they planned to elope.

Late Montague’s son, trysting with Capulet’s daughter.

It was laughable, unthinkable. Impossible.

“One dance,” scoffed his aunt at her vanity, though she too looked strained. “An impudent regard, and suddenly it’s a tryst. Absolute rubbish. No, Tybalt, I forbid you to go there. How could you suspect Juliette, of all people, of such a thing?”

In the front garden with her cousins and the mute servant girl, not even bothering to hide their whispering among themselves, Juliette picked flowers in an impromptu bouquet. On her ear sat a magenta blossom he was sure his uncle did not grow. Every now and then she took it out of her ear and inhaled its scent, a rich, ecstatic flush spreading. Without looking away, he withdrew his buzzing phone. A reply to his text.

 _Gathered up the gang_. Ottavio, on the ball as usual. Not like grunts like Sampson and Gregory, who barely had two sparks of wit to rub together. _Where do we meet?_

 _The plaza, ASAP_ , he texted.

So trained was he on his quarry that he didn’t realize he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings until he ran smack into Paris, of all people, in his usual gold cloak.

“How now, cousin, where are you off to?” (Die, die, _die_.) “You look in a right state.”

“Go to hell” was his reply, through gritted teeth.

“Sweet as always, I see. Nay, stay, Tybalt. Why don’t you and I talk?”

Deep breath. Then another. “Excuse my scanting courtesy, but I actually have business to attend to.”

“I think that business,” he said after a pause, clasping his shoulder, “is precisely why we need to speak. Urgently. Caffé Dolce. Ten minutes.”

So there he was now, at an overpriced café of all places, and he was deuced if he knew what convinced him. Perhaps it was the tight grim line of a smile the count had on his face, humorless and even a little ugly, truth be told. It was rare for the count to drop his smooth, polished façade. Even his girl, Constanza, like the rest of her cousins, had gushed over his bright handsomeness, his refinement, his sophistication. In fact, he had never seen Paris look so…businesslike. It almost distracted him from his purpose. Almost.

“My cousin has been seduced by a Montague,” he said roughly. “You know what that means.”

“Yes, yes, blood and war and all that,” said Paris with an airy wave. “The old code. But come, now. My Juliette, with a Montague? You’d shed blood over a tasteless rumor?”

His Juliette. He grasped the edge of the table to prevent his fist from flying out at that smug cheek. “It is more than a rumor.”

“Then you know more than I do.”

“You don’t know that boy!”

“Mercutio’s friend? Of course I do. The airhead heir of late Montague. Mercutio always did love rolling with the dogs, anything for a rise. Uncle gave up on him eons ago. What of him?”

He almost closed his eyes. Patience, patience. “He is the beloved of Verona’s women. He and his lot came to the ball last night, including your cousin.”

“Boyish mischief, sure. As Montague pranks go—”

“I saw him kiss Juliette.”

There, he thought when Paris didn’t reply, a surge of vindictive pleasure overwhelming him even as the words ripped the howling wound again. That should teach him. If this fop gave even the smallest crawling fuck for Juliette, that should hit him where it hurts.

“I was informed by my lord Capulet nothing had happened,” he said at last.

“My uncle sees only what he wants to see.” He and Aunt Bella, always closing their eyes, always turning away, too concerned with keeping appearances…“But I did. And now they say they plan to elope.”

“From kissing to elopement in less than a day? Fast work even for this town. Where are you going?”

“You can jest all you want,” said Tybalt, rising, teeth gritting, “but I won’t waste precious time humoring the likes of you. Now if you’ll excuse me, _cousin_ , I have business to sort out.”

“And you will,” said Paris grimly, to his undisguised shock. “But hear me first.”

And it was this admission, and a certain gleam in the count’s eye, that bid him sit back down. The count folded his long, thin fingers together in a pyramid.

“Let us suppose you’re right,” he said finally. “My fiancée has played the whore to a Montague, and you, as her cousin, will avenge her honor and that of your house to duel with her seducer.”

Perfect, concise, accurate. He distrusted it instantly. “And?”

“And thenceforth be set to hang by my uncle, who in his wisdom has outlawed brawling in Verona’s streets. You see the problem, don’t you?”

All he could see was Romeo’s head on a platter. “I don’t care to die. It would be a noble death, to die for l—honor.”

 _To die for love_. Juliette’s face appeared to him, sweet and glowing. At least until now, and for what? How could she had fallen for a Montague, given her tender heart to him? It must have been under false pretenses. He knew the likes of him well enough.

“It’d do no good if you die in the duel,” said Paris bluntly. “Not to Juliette or your house or anyone.”

“You think the likes of _Romeo_ will kill me?” There was more manhood in that clown Mercutio than in him.

“Duels are unpredictable. You of all should know that. But this is beside the point.”

“Well, if you would get to it and spare me this guff, perhaps this meeting wouldn’t be a waste of time.”

That did it. Paris’ eyes narrowed slightly, for the first time. He sized him up, as if wondering how much he should disclose sensitive information.

“I know you don’t like me, Tybalt.”

“Really? What perception.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I am, after all, a suitor to your beloved Juliette. As her cousin, you must vet me, put me through the purgatorial rack, as it were. But you have no idea. I could help you in ways you can scarce imagine. You catch my drift, do you?”

He sipped from his goblet and for the first time, past the cloud of his impatience and disgust, Tybalt saw Paris from an outsider’s perspective: A golden, polished handsomeness, so open that no hint of duplicity could be suspected.

“My uncle is not unreasonable,” he said. “He forbade brawling in Verona’s streets, but he said nothing about a private gentleman’s duel. If worst comes to worst, I could put in a good word for you.”

Generous, unexpectedly so. But he wasn’t born yesterday. “In exchange for what, exactly?”

The count’s lip curled. “Quick on the uptake, I see. It’s simple. You take care of Romeo, and I marry Juliette with the full, unqualified support of her most ardent defender.”

It was the slightest emphasis on _ardent_ that did it, that killed his ready reply for Paris to fuck off and stick his “help” where it was wanted, extinguishing it like a flame. His stomach curdled. Constanza’s furious, anguished face after the ball, accusing. _Anything for your precious Juliette._

“So that’s how it is,” he said finally, when he could speak.

“That’s how it is,” he agreed. He looked almost relieved, as if they were now on the same page. He set down his cup. “So, cousin. What will it be?”

He sat back, folding his arms against his gleaming gold doublet with expectant air, and for a moment all thoughts of Romeo Montague vanished and the prospect of Paris as a cousin-in-law loomed, sickening. He had forgotten how much he hated and distrusted him, from the moment he first saw him. He had forgotten Juliette’s slight expression of distaste she could not hide at the sight of him, one that amused him so. Until now, at least.

“All right, Escalus,” he said finally. “I see your point. But still. You presume too much.”

“Oh? How so?”

“That I’d prefer you to Romeo. I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you.”

Surprised heads turned, curious and alarmed, and even waiters paused mid-route. Paris’ laugh was unexpectedly high and dry, floating over the general café patter-talk, and went on far too long.

“Is this a joke to you?” he demanded, but he was nonplussed. He hadn’t known Paris could laugh, much less have a sense of humor.

“Oh, Tybalt,” he said at last, even wiping the corners of his watery eyes. “For a sword-slinging irascible, you make it very difficult to dislike you. Good lord, I haven’t laughed like that in ages. Have my tiramisù, go on.”

“I don’t want your cake, you knave.” For the damn fool was actually piling some on his plate. What the fuck was wrong with him? “I meant it.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, grinning. “Go on, then. Tell me how you prefer the Montague for Juliette than me. Really, I would know. Is it the hair? I bet it’s the hair.”

“ _Fuck. You._ ”

“In all seriousness, Tybalt,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “If that is how you truly feel, then we have nothing more to say to each other. I must needs release you to cousin Romeo, let the two could sort out wedding details. But I am curious. Would you still duel him as a formality or skip ahead to your uncle? A cousin does usually act as witness to the troth plight…”

 _The fucker_ , he thought with the burn of resentment. He called his bluff. How he did it was immaterial. And yet…

The memory. As always, it pulled him back.

That night of all nights, he had left his dagger in his chambers. So when he saw the Montague dog on the dais steps, eyes fixed on someone in the crowd, he already had lost precious time. He had recognized him instantly, of course—though it baffled him, women’s liking for him, he could not deny his striking looks. At the time, he hadn’t even noticed the blazing look on the Montague’s face. It was a Montague—suffice to say, the knave was a goner. He immediately sent for his dagger.

Five minutes. That was all it took. He had taken his eyes off him for five _fucking_ minutes. When he returned, Juliette was in his arms. The look on her face was enough to freeze the blood in him. It was an ecstasy confusable with pain. The air turned like water—he moved too slow, too slow. The next thing he knew, the dance had broken, his scandalized aunt leading Juliette away.

His phone dinged again, breaking his reverie. A new text from Ottavio.

_We’re in position. Shaken off the fop yet?_

“Your friends await,” said Paris, eyes flickering. “Well, Tybalt?”

Nothing like the present to put things in perspective. He was wasting time here. He sent a quick reply and stood at last, pulling his coat to him. “Keep your fine Escalus nose out of my business, _cousin_. At least until the wedding. Do that, and we won’t have any problems with each other.”

And with that, he left the count and his smug triumph, mind already far away to the eastern side of town, where his quarry laid. He had a Montague to meet.


End file.
